


Blogger's Block

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday Smut, M/M, Smut, more smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is having trouble writing his blog, so Sherlock finds a unique way to help him.</p><p>A birthday gift for the wonderful MapleleafCameo.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blogger's Block

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MapleleafCameo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/gifts).



With a loud huff John slammed his laptop shut and thrust it aside, stomping into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Glancing up from his microscope Sherlock watched, reading all the signs of frustration in his friend.

“Problem?” he asked.

John mumbled a response, lifting a mug in question.

“Yes please.” Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. “However you’ll have to speak more clearly if I’m to help you with whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

Restraining himself from slamming the beverage down on the table, John leaned back against the worktop and ran a hand through his hair.

“I said I’ve got writer’s block.” He sighed.

“Blogger’s.”

“Pardon?”

“Blogger’s block. You’re a blogger, not a writer.”

“Well that depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?” John tried to control the snarl in his voice. “After all, you’re always saying I make the blog too flowery, more a fantasy novel than a case write-up.”

Sitting up and pushing the microscope away from him, Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, resting his chin on them as his eyes flickered over his flatmates’ stony features.

“You’re angry.”

“Good deduction Sherlock, but then who wouldn’t be? You mock my attempts to write up our cases as childish fiction, yet I don’t hear any of our clients saying that they’ve come to you because you can identify two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash.”

Listening to his friend’s rant, Sherlock’s eyebrows rose steadily.

“And without our clients and the work they bring, Sally Donovan might well be proved right as you go on a murdering spree out of sheer boredom.”

John’s stormy blue eyes took in the shocked expression on Sherlock’s face, and suddenly the thought of the lanky genius prancing about pretending to solve his own crimes forced a giggle from between his lips.

Slowly rising to his feet Sherlock stalked around the table, trying desperately to control the smile twitching at his cheeks.

“You think it funny do you, the thought that I might commit murder?”

As John turned to face him he reached out, his hands grasping John’s shoulders, mindful of the tenderness of his scar, and step by step he walked the doctor backwards towards the bedroom door.

“Planning to murder me?”

“No John,” long nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons on the smaller man’s shirt, tickling slightly as they moved next to pull the hem of his t-shirt from his jeans. “Not murder.”

“Then what?” the question was giggled as John felt Sherlock reached down to undo first belt, then jeans, thumbs hooking into waistbands and pushing down denim and cotton.

“This!” With a swift flick of his leg behind John’s knees, Sherlock tipped him back onto the bed and completed the movement of stripping the other man bare.

Quickly removing his own clothing, his eyes never leaving John’s, he knelt on the bed beside him.

“I’m going to show you how I would examine the body…..”

John’s breath hitched in his throat as the younger man straddled his hips then leaned down, lips almost touching his ear.

“First I would examine the neck for marks of strangulation or ligatures.” He licked and nipped his way around John’s neck.

A sensuous groan forced its way past his lips as John tipped his head back, arching his body upwards, and his hands reaching for Sherlock’s arms only for the other man’s ministrations to cease.

“Stop. You’re a body under examination.” He smirked. “Dead men don’t move.”

With a shaky laugh John let his hands fall back down to his sides.

“Now, where was I?” Sherlock’s head dipped again. “That’s right, checking for signs of petechial haemorrhaging….” He stared down into John’s laughing blue eyes. “No, but there are clear signs of mydriasis…”

“Show off.”

“Of course.” He shifted down slightly. “Next I’d check for obvious signs of chest injury, maybe even double check for a possible heartbeat.”

Resting his head against John’s warm muscular chest, he smiled as he heard the strong yet rapid thrum and thud of his lover’s heartbeat.

John felt the soft brush of curls moving across his chest, but before he had time to wonder what Sherlock was up to now a wet tongue laved his nipple, then as he tried to arch upwards once more the younger man blew a cool breath across the wet flesh, making the nipple pebble and taking John’s breath away.

“Christ……” the word hissed between Johns teeth as Sherlock turned his head and repeated the treatment on the other nipple.

“Then,” blunt edges of Sherlock’s teeth dragged across John’s skin as he spoke. “I’ll move down, check there’s no traumatic injury mid torso.” He pushed his face into John’s stomach, a shudder running through his frame as the soft warm flesh melded around him, and he licked and sucked and nipped, while his gently muffled groans were lost under the sound of the doctors whimpers.

“Please Sherlock, please…”

Fingers combed through his lush dark curls, and he lifted his head.

“Stop that, you’re…..”

“No, no I’m not.” John looked at him with love-heated eyes. “You’ve brought me back to life.”

“But that’s not….”

“Oh yes it is!” With a grin John suddenly jerked upwards, flipping them both over, landing on top of the lithe, slender body. “Anything’s possible for the world’s only consulting genius.”

Not giving the younger man the chance to respond John pulled him in for a kiss, his tongue invading Sherlock’s mouth, one hand reaching over to his bedside drawer to grab his favourite Gun Oil lube.

“What are you doing, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked as they both came up for air.

“Not what you’re thinking I’m doing.” John grinned back.

Popping the lid from the bottle, he eased himself away, and then drizzled the slick liquid down Sherlock engorged cock, from glans to balls. As he returned the bottle to the drawer he grasped the younger man’s wrists and forced his arms above his head.

Angling himself so that he was curled on his side John tightened his hold on the other’s wrists, smiled into his eyes and whispered “My turn!” before leaning down to suck on Sherlock’s full lower lip.

Reaching down he captured the oil slicked balls in the palm of his hand, slowly rolling them round and grinning against Sherlock’s mouth as with a groan his slender love spread his legs wider and bucked his hips.

“Oh no you don’t.” he chuckled wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s and pulling them back together, never stopping the rolling motion of his palm.

“Jo-o-o-hn.” It was part groan, part whine and wholly sensual, and because he was being pinned quiet efficiently by the solid bodied soldier the only uninhibited movement was the throbbing and twitching of his cock.

Fascinated, John watched as the movement spread the coverage of the Gun Oil, making the taut skin glisten. Sucking in a deep, appreciative breath he leant down, letting go of Sherlock’s wrists and putting his lips close to Sherlock’s ear.

“Don’t move.” The whispered words were infused with everything that made the shorter man a Captain of the RAMC, and supporting his weight with his arms he moved, lining up their bodies so that as he lowered his hips and rocked they were so perfectly aligned that the oil was spread and shared, and as they rutted together their groans were swallowed by their fervent kisses.

“John…….John……now,” Sherlock was panting, almost sobbing as he begged for fulfilment.

John reached down, closing his fist around both of them, holding them firmly as he thrust his hips harder, the oil slicked friction driving them both onwards.

“Don’t hold back Sherlock, sing for me!”

If the younger man was bothered by the flowery language that poured from John’s lips he was too far gone either to acknowledge it or to prevent the reciprocal vocalisations, and with cries of “Hold me, finish me!” he came, shouting noisily as he dragged John over the edge with him, their combined ejaculate coating their chests and stomachs.

Collapsing sideways, the air whooshed out of John’s lungs as he landed on his side, his arms automatically tightening around his lover, wriggling and tugging until the duvet came free from under their bodies and he was able to pull it over their rapidly chilling flesh.

“That was…..”

“Different?”

“Unusual.”

“Hmmm.”

“John…..”

“Um?”

“Did it work?”

“Hmmm.”

“John….”

“Um?”

“Don’t write about it.”

 

 


End file.
